Teresa kept twisting her key, her knuckles turning white as she rattled the heavy oak handle of the Lomas de Chapultepec house. Behind her, two burly men in overalls were already loading Alejandro’s personal belongings—packed neatly into standard cardboard boxes—into the bed of a moving truck.
“Alejandro! The lock is broken!” she yelled into her phone, her voice shrill enough to echo down the quiet, tree-lined street. “That useless woman must have done something to the door!”
“Mom, stop calling me,” Alejandro’s voice cracked over the speaker, sounding entirely hollow. “I don’t have a job anymore. Mariana’s lawyers just served me with divorce papers at a café down the street from the office. They took the keys to the SUV. I had to take an Uber.”
“What do you mean she fired you?!” Teresa gasped, finally letting go of the useless key. “She can’t fire you! You’re the man of that house! You built that company!”
“No, Mom,” Alejandro muttered, the weight of a half-decade of lies finally collapsing on him. “I didn’t build anything. I was just an employee. Mariana owns Ruta Norte. She owns the house. She owns everything.”
Before Teresa could process the words, a sleek black sedan pulled into the driveway.
